


Never, yet one hour

by redletters



Category: Richard III (1995)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 06:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7965904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redletters/pseuds/redletters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The crisp snap of a cigarette case brought Anne to attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never, yet one hour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lareinenoire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lareinenoire/gifts).



> The 1995 McKellen/Loncraine film happened to be stuck in my head when I read your prompt about a conversation between Anne and the Duchess of York, and the characters in this are inspired by that version, where Cecily has a few of Margaret's prickly lines, and Anne is a bit different than I usually read her in the play.

The crisp snap of a cigarette case brought Anne to attention; she'd been dozing again, resting on the couch looking out the window over the sea. Which wouldn't do, she needed to stay alert, stay awake. She looked up to see who was there.

The Dowager Duchess of York had made her way into the room and sat down without her noticing. That was poor form, and beyond – that was _bad_. 

"Your Grace." Anne began to struggle to her feet.

"Please, don't bother," the Duchess waved. "I wouldn’t have come in if I'd known you were in here, I'm not in the mood for making conversation."

"Oh, good," Anne said, and sank back onto the couch. A cigarette found its way into her hand, and the women smoked in silence for a time.

As a child, Anne had been vaguely aware of Aunt Cis, a small woman with a straight back who never brought gifts. She came to visit with her husband, Richard-Duke-of-York, whose real name was Plantagenet but no one was allowed to call him that except with family, and not where anyone could hear. There had been so many things like that at Middleham, little knots of secrets they had to pretend didn't even exist, and a thick wall between people who could be talked to safely (Isabelle, Mother, Father), and people who couldn't (everyone else). Her rooms had been the only safe place, and even then, as her father would cheerfully remind her, there could always be someone hiding behind the tapestries.

A low resonant clang – her aunt had rung the bell. Anne pulled herself back into the room. Her cigarette end was in the ashtray, and had smoked out, so they must have been sitting there a long time. She didn't know how long – the clocks in the house had disappeared since Richard moved in.

One of the servants came in, a woman.

"Dubonnet," her aunt said. The woman looked at Anne.

"Two," Anne said.

Some time later, the drinks came.  

"What time is it?" Anne asked, as the woman laid lace-paper settings, and served the drinks.  

"Dinner's nearly ready," she assured her, picking up the old ashtrays and setting down new ones. She left. Who was she? Anne didn't recognise her – she must be one of the new staff. Anne hardly recognised anyone any more. Richard was so anxious that their servants rarely lasted longer than three weeks, and she had hardly any cousins left to keep her company.

They drank. It was dimming outside, the sky and sea fading to the same dark blue. Soon someone would be in to turn on the lamps.

"I'm thinking of going abroad," Aunt Cis said.

Her aunt's voice still had a pale northern burr, that Anne had lost while living in the south. As she grew up Anne had tried to remove the regional from herself, delete anything that marked her out, that was significant, unusual, partisan, that showed her to be anything other than a bland blank _posh_. Being neutral would help her keep safe.

"Oh?"

"Oh, for god's sake, you stupid thing," Aunt Cis said. She put her glass down on the oak side table. It cracked the room like a shot. "If Richie weren't dead already I'd murder him for what he did to you girls. You need to _think_ about what you're going to do – think, and sit up straight. You're not going to be here for long, unless you _do something_."

Aunt Cis was wearing furs, Anne realised, without even any kind of mourning crepe. Not for her husband, who was dead, or for her brother, who was dead, or for her sons, who were also dead. Her frock was satin – dark royal purple. She even had diamond earrings in, elegant drops that might well be worth five thousand pounds each.

"That's not appropriate," she found herself saying. She wanted to stand up, but her feet were heavy and tangled in her silk skirts on the couch, and her shoes were on the floor.

Aunt Cis was looking at her pityingly, or with aggravation.

Anne closed her eyes.

When she woke up, Aunt Cis had gone, taking her cigarette case with her. The glasses had been cleared away, and there was nothing to prove she had been there at all: not a scent, or a hair, or a thread.

There was a knock on the door. It was that woman again. She made apologies for my lord, who would not be coming down for dinner – would my lady like to take it here in the drawing room, or...?

"I'll take it in the dining room, thank you," Anne said. If Richard didn't want to eat properly, that was no reason for her not to. Though she wasn't dressed for dinner – she would have to go upstairs.

The woman curtsied, and left.

Anne wondered what abroad meant. She herself had never been out of the country – it wasn't patriotic, it would draw the wrong kind of attention. To be seen, during the war, fleeing the country; or afterwards, to seem to be celebrating.

Well, maybe she would like to go abroad. Yes, take a holiday. If Richard would let her go – but he might like her gone, he had been cross lately. Not sleeping well. His shoulder hurt, and he had so much to think about. It was very tiring.

It was all very tiring.

Anne closed her eyes.


End file.
